


Sierra

by momoejaku



Series: drunk!Jason [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, any awful poetic attempts at writing are blamed on jason todd, bruce is lucky he got him at the end of the night when he was sobering up, that boy is walking poetry and should be written as so more often, touchy jay is the best jay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoejaku/pseuds/momoejaku





	Sierra

The perpetual tapping of computer keys echoed off the stone walls of the cave. It was the only other noise to be heard in the vast, cavernous darkness save for the hum of electrical equipment, water dripping from limestone, and the occasional flapping of wings from deeper crevasses.

Bruce Wayne did not register any of these sounds, his mind too engrossed in his work to pay attention to much else other than the information that each tap of the key was relaying onto the computer screen.

Usually, it was Alfred who forced him to come back to reality and the world of humans for a moment. Reminded him that his body required things such as sustenance and rest in order to function at its full capacity. And Bruce would comply begrudgingly.

But tonight was one of Alfred’s rare nights off of work. He was out, which meant that Bruce could overwork himself to his heart’s content until the small hours of the morning until his eyes betrayed him and would remain open not longer.

This was the plan. This was how Bruce had mentally prepared himself for the night to go. And yet, Bruce had learned long ago that even the most intricately crafted and foolproof contingency plan can be disassembled and destroyed in a mere matter of seconds by the smallest unexpected amalgam or “hitch.”

Tonight’s “hitch,” was Jason Todd.

Bruce started as a loud crash sounded from the top of the stairs, followed by an emphatic one-worded profanity that cut through the heavy silence like a thunderclap.

He frowned, his gaze fixed on the stairs, waiting for the profanities that followed to draw closer, wondering if the profanities were an indication of injury, and if their owner would require assistance.

As the figure clumsily reached the bottom of the steps, it became quite clear that while the former was not true, the latter most certainly was.

Jason’s face lit up when he caught sight of Bruce, olive-toned cheeks slightly flushed as he stumbled on the final step, walking towards him and jabbing a finger at the perplexed face of Bruce Wayne.

‘BRUCE. I have things I need to say to you.’

Bruce took in the tipsy trainwreck that stood in front of him, everything from his slurred words to messy, unkempt hair and clothes, to the large, infectious grin that was spread across his face. A smile twitched at the corner of Bruce’s lips.

‘Jay… you’re drunk.’

Jason glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, as if making sure no one was listening, and then leaned forward to Bruce’s ear.

‘Tequilaaaaaaaaa,’ he said, his voice a sultry whisper.

Bruce winced as a waft of the alcohol overpowered him in Jason’s warm breath, the ripe, musky smell of the agave piercing through his sinuses and causing him to draw back from Jason slightly. This only proved to offend Jason, however.

‘Bruce. You can nooot run away from me this time, okay?’ he said, wagging his finger at Bruce with a stern frown affixed to his face. ‘You can’t just shut off your emoshuns like you usually do. I alreadysaidthatIhavethings. Important things. _To tell you_.’

‘How much tequila did you have exactly, Jason?’ Bruce asked him, reaching out to steady Jason as he nearly fell over.

‘Enough to know that you’re trying to avoid this, Bruce. But I’m not going to let you.’

Jason took a hold of Bruce by the shoulders and held his gaze firmly, a fire of conviction and sureness burning in his eyes. He took a deep breath.

‘Dad… you’re a good Bruce.’

Bruce blinked and opened his mouth to respond but covered it with his hand to keep himself from devolving into laughter. Jason saw the confusion and humour shoot through Bruce’s eyes and cursed, muttering to himself.

‘Shit. No… No, that’s not right. Hold on… Bruce!’ he yelled finally, clearly frustrated with himself. And Bruce composed himself, nodded at Jason to continue. ‘Bruce, you’re a good dad.’

At once, the amused smile fell as a thousand contradictions spoke at once in Bruce’s mind, vying for dominance. It was usually easier to repress them, but something about Jason’s words, something about tonight and the way he spoke them, the way they had been uttered without faltering, without any hint of doubt or uncertainty, struck a chord in Bruce’s soul. Some deep insecurity and fear he had kept hidden for too long. So he spoke the words he knew Jason would likely not remember in the morning. The words he prayed his son would forget.

‘I am not a good father, Jason,’ Bruce said quietly, even as his son stood there in front of him. ‘I’ve never been a good father to you.’

Jason stared at him for another long beat before he hung his head with a short laugh. Then, before Bruce could react, Jason was pulling him up out of his chair.

His body tensed as Jason’s strong arms reached out around him, his head coming to rest on Bruce’s shoulder, burying into it.

‘I’m gonna protect you, Bruce,’ Jason said, his voice muffled through Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce blinked, muscles tense and awkward as he stood there, still as stone.

‘Protect me from what?’

‘From yourself, obviously,’ Jason responded, and pulled away roughly.

His hands went up to Bruce’s face, and Bruce flinched instinctively. But Jason did not hesitate. He cupped Bruce’s face in his hands, searching him, holding his gaze in a way that would not allow Bruce to evade him.

‘Bruce,’ he said again, his voice surprisingly clear and firm for someone drunk on Tequila. ‘I can’t do this tonight. I can’t fight your self-hate. Usually I can. Usually, it makes me so mad. I can yell at you to stop being such a pissy man-child, and it works. But tonight, when I say things like “you’re a good dad” or “I love you”… can you just, believe me? For once? Can you trust that I’m telling you the truth?’

Bruce hesitated, mouth fixed in a straight poker-faced line as he looked his son in the eyes.

‘Yes,’ he lied.

Jason nodded, seemingly satisfied.

‘Okay. Let’s try that again. Bruce, you’re a good dad.’

Bruce Wayne could take knives and bullets and punches. It was the life that he had resigned himself to, trained for, grown to expect and survive in.

But he had no defense against a statement he didn’t believe. Especially not when it came from the son whom he had let down the most. The son who he couldn’t protect. The son he had let die.

But looking into those deep, brown eyes, overflowing with love and affection and emotions, he knew that, no matter what Jason said, he would take the time to attack and obliterate his every last doubt. Even if it ruined his night. Even if it sobered him right up, and dragged him back through the thick, greasy mud of unwanted memories.

And he couldn’t do that to Jay. Not when this was the first time he had seen him genuinely happy in a long, long time.

So he put up the best feeble defense he could muster, the one that came most natural to him…  sarcasm.

‘Jason, you’re a terrible son. And you’re drunk.’

Jason smiled at him, a mischievous look dancing in his eyes. He shrugged, throwing his arms in the air with a nonchalant smirk, that infectious, devil-may-kill smile from his days as Robin, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel his heart fall in his chest looking at it.

‘Nothing you say can make me mad tonight,’ Jason boasted, as if in a dare.

Bruce stood there in silence for a moment, pondering the young drunken man that stood in front of him.

‘Poetry is a lesser form of literature,’ he stated simply. ‘It’s overrated.’

The effect was almost immediate. Jason’s grin was gone from his face in an instant, a look of pure anger and fury crossing his eyes as an offended scoff escaped his mouth.

 _‘Overrate_ _–_ _?_ ’ he spluttered.

He had to stop to take in one deep breath, his hands folded, pressed against drunken lips before he could meet Bruce’s eyes again, his deep brown eyes filled with righteous abhorrence and disgust. He exhaled.

‘Bruce… only people who haven’t yet experienced poetry, truly experienced it, say batshit crazy nonsense like that.’

And suddenly, he had a firm hold on Bruce’s arm and was pulling him towards the stairs.

‘Jason… what _–_ ’

‘It’s almost five a.m. The sun'll be rising soon,’ he said quickly, as if it explained everything.

Bruce sighed and drew to a stop, gently pulling back against Jason’s strong grip.

‘Jason. Wait. Where are we going?

Jason turned back at Bruce and smiled at him.

‘We are going in search of poetry.’

* * *

 

The colours of a tequila sunrise dripped down the glassy horizon as Bruce and Jason sat on the roof of Wayne Manor, watching the red and orange concoction in a reverent silence.

Bruce turned to look at Jason and noticed his lips moving wordlessly; uttering liturgies, verses, prose intended for no one else. The warm morning sun framed his young but worn face, a halo resting on curly brown hair.

Sunlight burned from deep within Jason’s eyes as Bruce watched his son and saw him as if for the first time. Saw him for who and what he had become over these years of pain and suffering that they tried to avoid talking about. Tried to avoid devolving into debates that turned into lectures, that turned into accusations, that turned into separation and barriers and… distance.

Jason was a vessel. Created to hold greatness and destiny to the brim till it overflowed. Pulled out of murky clay spinning on wheel, tempered by heat and yet enduring, enduring in unimaginable strength.

Broken, but mending.

Cracks filled not with gold, but with blood and iron and strength. A sacrificial anger for the hurting and broken that led him into the fray. A deep sorrow and yearning that tempered metal with saltwater tears.

He couldn’t ever know the extent of despair that Jason held within his beating heart that had once been dead; but Bruce was damn well going to do whatever he could to protect him from falling deeper into the pain of his past.

Father reached out in the chill morning air and found his son’s trembling hand, taking a hold of it tight.

Jason betrayed no sign of discomfort or awkwardness, in fact it seemed like he hadn’t even noticed. But then, the corner of his mouth turned up in a small, knowing smile, fingers intertwining readily and and firmly. As if they refused to let go.  

 

And in that moment, Bruce found his poetry.


End file.
